Then she burst into a peal of laughter. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. " "I'd never set eyes on you again. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. I have never wept since that day. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too.
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